


Cloak and Dagger

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: The Laws of Magic
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 09:31:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Rational? What's rational about magic? Trumped-up, self-important poseurs making things happen that have no right to happen. Dangerous stuff."</i> (<i>Word of Honour</i>, p 235)</p><p>Aspiring magician Pompey Craddock attends university and meets an eternally-suspicious young man called Tallis. This is the story of how they met, how they fell in love, and how they - eventually - worked things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. October, 1883

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in June 2011 [at ff.net](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7106413/1/) under the pseudonym 'questionableinterrogations'.

            It was at approximately six-thirty in the evening on an unseasonably warm Friday in October, 1883, that Pompey Craddock’s desk exploded.

 

            The detonation echoed down the corridor, easily reaching the ears of a young man named Tallis in the next room. Without a second thought, he abandoned his schoolwork and rushed out into the hall, following the acrid smell of burning and the sound of rasping coughs to the room directly to the left of his own. When he burst through the door, it was to find the ceiling wreathed in smoke, the cheap pine desk in flames, curled, blackened sheafs of paper floating to the floor – and a wiry young man with a curved nose sprawled in the corner by the bed, his pale hair in absolute disarray. The smoke was already infecting Tallis’ throat and lungs and, pressing his sleeve over his mouth and nose, he darted across the room to fling open the windows.

            The young man on the floor groaned and started coughing again in earnest, and Tallis hurried over, hauling him to his feet and trying to drag him out of the room. He protested, struggling against Tallis’ strong hands and muttering something utterly unintelligible under his breath. It was only as the flames on the desk suddenly dampened and receded, every last ember winking out within a few seconds, that Tallis realised he had been doing magic.

            Immediately, the young man slumped further into his arms, coughing even worse than before. Tallis half-carried him from the room, the smoke searing at his throat as he was forced to use both arms to support the stranger. A moment later they found themselves sliding down the wall between their rooms, weakened by coughing and leaning against each other. Not a soul came down the hallway to investigate, and the pale-haired boy dropped his head, exhausted, onto Tallis’ shoulder. It was quite a few minutes before either of them found themselves capable of words.

            “Tallis,” he finally panted, holding out his hand for the other to shake.

            “Just Tallis?” asked the other man, glancing obliquely up at him.

            “Just Tallis,” he repeated firmly.

            The other one nodded. “Pompey Craddock,” he replied, grasping Tallis’ hand with a weary facsimile of strength, not taking his head from his shoulder; his pale hair was tickling Tallis’ chin. Swallowing another gulp of air, he continued. “Thank you for the –” He waved his long fingers absently.

            “The life saving?” Tallis smirked.

            “The _assistance,”_ Pompey corrected. “I had the situation entirely under control.”

            “You were passed out in the corner while your desk was in flames –”

            “I was not _passed out_ –”

            “– and when I finally managed to get you out of there, I was virtually _carrying_ you –”

            “The explosion took a toll on me,” Pompey admitted, “and dousing the flames was an effort, but I did not _need_ you to support me – you were simply convenient.”

            “You could barely stand on your own two feet,” Tallis argued, frowning in indignation.

            Pompey pushed himself away from Tallis’ shoulder and managed to haul himself to his feet, using the wall behind him to great advantage. As Tallis had suspected, he was not only whiplash thin, but significantly taller than him.

            “Well then,” he said, the imperiousness in his voice sitting surprisingly well on his tongue for a young man not yet in his twenties. “I thank you for your assistance, _Tallis,_ and I believe we will _not_ be seeing each other again.”

            “My room is right here,” Tallis countered, poking his chin in the direction of his door, still ajar. In the stunned, slightly insulted silence that followed, he too pushed himself up by the wall. “Are you a first-year?” he asked when he had gained his footing.

            “Yes,” said Pompey darkly. “Magical Theory, Practical Magic, Tactical Magic, History of Magic and Albionish Politics, if you must know,” he added, pre-emptively exasperated.

            Tallis raised his eyebrows. “I take AP as well,” he said. “I thought you looked familiar.”

            “Hm. Yes,” said Pompey stiffly, glaring down his nose and revealing nothing. He turned on his heel and was about to stalk back into his room when Tallis called out.

            “Will you be all right?”

            Pompey froze in his tracks, then turned slowly back to his neighbour. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, sounding thoroughly insulted.

            “It’s only,” said Tallis, letting through the barest hint of uncertainty – “you seem a little pale.”

            “That would be the effect of the magic,” said Pompey seriously. “It takes its toll.” His eyes narrowed in thought, then suddenly he stuck out his hand. “Good to meet you, Tallis,” he said, this time pronouncing the other boy’s name with studied deliberation, as if letting the sounds find a home in his mouth. Tallis smiled to one side, the expression seeming like a benevolent sort of half-smirk.

            “It was my pleasure,” he said, perfunctorily taking the proffered hand. Pompey didn’t return the smile, but there was a kind of softening around his eyes and a subtle twist in his mouth that spoke clearly of mirth.

            The two young men turned away to their respective rooms.


	2. December, 1883

            “Is it just me, or is Professor Hainesworth an utterable bore?”

            Pompey smirked just slightly. With heads bowed conspiratorially together, he and Tallis looked like a pair of veritable spies – what a shame, then, that they were simply discussing the uselessness of their current lecturer in Albionish Politics.

            “I could probably learn more about politics by sitting in on a staff budgeting meeting,” Pompey muttered in return, causing Tallis to stifle a snigger.

            “I’m sure my time would be better spent observing the politics of the ducks in the pond outside our dormitories,” he hissed, and it was Pompey’s turn to shake with contained laughter, his mouth twisting into its strange form of amusement - not quite a smile, but not his customary blank frown, either.

            “If Craddock and Tallis would be kind enough to stop such childish behaviour!” came a sudden shout from the front of the theatre. The two young men glanced up from where they leant in to each other to see Professor Hainesworth’s sharp, bespectacled glare upon them. “Would you kindly share with the audience just what it is that you find so amusing about the formation of the shadow cabinet?”

            “Oh, it isn’t the shadow cabinet that we find amusing, sir,” said Tallis calmly, allowing his voice to carry across the theatre. “We were just discussing how our time might better be spent observing the staff meetings, or perhaps the ducks outside our college.”

            Professor Hainesworth somehow managed to look entirely shocked as well as entirely outraged.

            “We supposed it might be a better method of learning the subtleties of politics,” Pompey added flatly – “or lack thereof.”

            The professor sucked in a furious breath. “I will not suffer such impudence in my lecture!” he shouted shrilly, enraged even beyond the level of his surprise.

            “We haven’t a problem with that, then, have we, Tallis?” said Pompey coolly, turning to his friend.

            “Not at all, my man,” continued Tallis, joining Pompey in a swift, efficient sweeping up of their belongings. “To the duck pond, then?”

            “I agree,” said Pompey, standing and swinging his leather satchel over his shoulder in one, smooth movement. “To the duck pond.” They mounted the steps in the aisle, shrugging into their coats and ignoring Professor Hainesworth’s apoplectic expression. “I do intend to pass this course, after all.”

 

            Fifteen minutes later, the two young men were collapsing against each other on the lawn at the edge of the pond beneath their dormitory windows, laughing and trying to hold themselves upright.

            “Did – did –” Tallis was trying to say. “Did you see his _face?”_

            This sparked another tidal wave of snickering shudders to run through Pompey’s chest, making him keel over backwards onto the grass, quickly followed by his friend.

            “I felt sure he was going to try to stop us,” Pompey chuckled, his cheeks glowing red from the cold. “Though what he was going to do from all the way down there, I couldn’t say.”

            “A good thing he hasn’t a magical bone in his body, then,” said Tallis between convulsions of amusement.

            “If he had, I’m certain I could have held him off and secured our escape,” replied Pompey, quickly returning to his usual solemnity.

            “Oh yes, you and your magic,” Tallis grumbled. “You underestimate the abilities of us lesser mortals, you know.”

            Pompey snorted. “I rather think it is you mortals that overestimate yourselves,” he said, causing Tallis to glare.

            “Well then,” he said grumpily, “perhaps the next time the Easton brothers try to steal your books, I won’t come to your rescue, if my abilities have been so _overestimated.”_

            “Really?” Pompey countered easily. “Then the next time you find yourself sneaking about out of bounds at night, you won’t be relying on my spells to give you light and soften your steps, I suppose.”

            “I don’t really _need_ those tricks, Pompey,” Tallis snarled in return. “I can get by quite all right on my own, thank you.”

            “Just as I can deal with those _bloody_ Easton boys and their stupid, inane – _buggering_ fear tactics!” Pompey spat the curses as if they were the seeds of a particularly foul lemon, his harsh breaths pluming in the air above them. It was only in regard to the three Easton brothers – Simon, James and Victor, each a year apart in age – that Tallis ever heard Pompey swear.

            He said nothing, just glanced briefly at his friend and sat up, drawing his knees to his chest. Pompey’s eyes followed him, boring into his back for a moment before returning to their usual, dulled glare. He turned his head away.

            They stayed there for a long time, Tallis watching the water and Pompey alternately keeping an eye on the slices of the university grounds that he could glimpse through the buildings and staring, unseeing, at Tallis’ back. After thirty minutes of silence, Pompey pushed himself up to sit next to his friend, placing one long hand on his back.

            “Perhaps we should head back to the university,” he said.

            Tallis stared. “You _cannot_ be thinking of going back to Professor Hainesworth,” he said disbelievingly.

            “Of course not, what do you take me for?” Pompey snapped lightly. “But we _do_ have other classes to attend.”

            With a sigh, Tallis pulled himself to his feet and held out his hand for Pompey to take, hauling him up as well. As they walked away from the pond, back toward the thronging crowds of students and professionals, Pompey’s fingertips stole gently into the crook of Tallis’ elbow. The mute apology was accepted in equal silence.


	3. March, 1884

            Every time Pompey performed magic in Tallis’ company, the latter frowned in something resembling suspicion and kept a firm eye on whatever it was being conjured or altered or _changed._

            “It doesn’t make sense,” he said, one afternoon in a courtyard halfway between Pompey’s History of Magic lecture and the field where Tallis played rugby.

            “It makes perfect _sense,_ Tallis,” murmured Pompey, twiddling his fingers at the cricket ball currently levitating above the table between them and scratching out something on the notes laid out before him, all written in a foreign, spiky script. “The magic of the modern age is based in rationality and logic, not the mumbo-jumbo of old.”

            Tallis grunted disbelievingly. “It’s based in useless subtleties and backhanded advantages, if you ask me,” he growled under his breath. “Unsportsmanlike, is what it is.”

            Pompey’s mouth twisted in one corner. “If you made even the barest of attempts to understand it, I’m sure your mindset would change,” he said.

            “Overdramatic claptrap,” Tallis concluded sullenly. “Not worth my time. I have _real_ things to sort out – tangible, physical, _human_ things.”

            With a low, incomprehensible mutter, Pompey snapped his fingers and the cricket ball began to glow dully. “Are you denying my humanity?” he asked calmly.

            Tallis snorted cynically. “My only implication,” he said, “is that you _magicians_ ought to look at something normal, now and then. You need to be reminded that not everyone is as high and mighty as you. Some things can’t be quantified by your _laws_ and your _principles.”_

            Another meaningless utterance, and the ball began to emit soft pulses of heat. Tallis bristled, irritated at being ignored.

            “I don’t trust it,” he finished determinedly.

            “Am I meant to infer that this means you don’t trust _me?”_ Pompey muttered, dashing off a quick scribble and dropping his pencil. He wiggled his fingers and spat a series of garbled syllables. The ball began to hum.

            “Of course I don’t trust you,” said Tallis with a snort. Pompey snapped another of his magic words and the ball hummed louder.

            “I don’t trust anyone,” Tallis continued heedlessly, “and neither should you. Neither should _anyone_. No one should trust because no one can be trusted.”

            The ball glowed a bit brighter as Pompey spoke more of his unfamiliar words. Tallis talked over him.

            “Least of all _magicians,”_ he said spitefully. “Always messing about with things that people shouldn’t be able to do. Unnatural, it is.” The ball grew brighter still. “Not right. So no, I don’t trust magicians, and I don’t trust _you.”_

            Suddenly, the cricket ball floating between them exploded with light, causing both men to cry out, squeezing shut their eyes and flinging themselves from their seats. The humming was shriller and louder, and the light positively blinding, a fact which made them both glad that the courtyard contained no other human presence.

            “Turn it off!” Tallis shouted from where he had landed, the magical glare seeping white and red through his eyelids.

            “I can’t!” Pompey snarled indignantly, curled over on the flagstones beneath his bench. “I don’t know where the parameters went wrong –”

            “Why did you let them go wrong in the first place?” Tallis cried.

            “I didn’t _let_ them go wrong, you distracted me!” Pompey retorted hotly.

            They both breathed heavily for a moment, the sharp whining of the cricket ball-cum-beacon ringing in their ears. Finally, Tallis spoke, his voice calm despite its raised volume.

            “What do you need?” he called.

            “What?” said Pompey, frowning.

            “What do you need to set it right?” Tallis elaborated impatiently. There was a pause in which Pompey considered all manner of things, including, but not limited to, how to fix what he’d done.

            “I need my notes,” he cried eventually, “from the table. Perhaps the problem was in my planning.”

            “Right, then,” said Tallis. “I’ll meet you under the table and we’ll go from there.”

            “What?” Pompey repeated, shifting in his place so he lay further beneath the bench. “What are you –” He was cut off by the tentative touch of Tallis’ fingers against his, and in a moment, they were half-crouched, shoulder-to-shoulder, beneath the table.

            “Your notes, you said?” Tallis confirmed, not quite shouting anymore.

            “Yes,” said Pompey warily.

            “Hold on a moment, then,” said Tallis, and stretched out from under the table, squinting open his eyes just a fraction and sweeping as many of Pompey’s papers into his arms as he could before returning to the relative shade beneath the furniture.

            “Here,” he said, stuffing the notes into Pompey’s arms.

            “How am I supposed to read them?” said Pompey, bewildered. Tallis huffed a sharp sigh and began wriggling about beside Pompey, worming his way out of his jacket and holding it over his friend’s head, creating a surprisingly effective cocoon of shadows. Immediately, Pompey opened his eyes and began hastily scanning through his notes, impatiently tossing away each subsequent, useless page.

            “Any luck?” called Tallis from where he was curled around Pompey’s head.

            “The problem wasn’t in the planning,” replied Pompey. “I’ll have to improvise – hold on.” He began chanting in the same, unintelligible language as before. As he spoke, the whining above them grew shriller and the light brighter, causing Tallis to grip his arms tighter around Pompey’s head and shoulders and bury his face in the back of the young man’s neck. Then, with a sharp, final shout, Pompey snapped his fingers. The humming stopped and the light disappeared, leaving behind what seemed to the two men to be an interminably dark night. The dull thudding of a cricket ball sounded in the void.

            Slowly, carefully, Tallis opened his eyes and uncurled himself from his friend, taking back his jacket. Pompey blinked owlishly in the sunlight.

            “Are you all right?” he asked softly, his expression a familiar, carefully-honed blank.

            “Seem to be,” said Tallis gruffly, clambering out from under the table and going after the cricket ball. “Though this just confirms what I said about magic.”

            Pompey hummed non-commitally, following Tallis back to their benches and setting about restoring the order of his notes.

            “It’s unstable,” Tallis continued, sitting across from his friend and setting the ball firmly down on the table between them. “Un _trustworthy._ It’s not right.”

            Despite his biting words, his voice lacked its earlier venom, and Pompey didn’t need to look up to see the grudging thanks behind his features. He said nothing, returning to his notes – though he did take the cricket ball and shove it resolutely to the bottom of his bag, registering Tallis’ smirk in the corner of his eye.


	4. May, 1884

            To Tallis’ chagrin, it wasn’t until Pompey was right by his bed that he realised his room had been invaded.

            “What –” he started hoarsely. “Pompey, what –”

            “Shh,” Pompey hissed, clambering into the bed beside him and sitting back against the headboard, his long legs stretched out before him. Tallis glared, but shifted up nonetheless.

            “How did you get in here?” he asked in a whisper. “We aren’t meant to be out of our rooms at night.”

            “I’m not out of our rooms,” Pompey replied calmly. Tallis frowned.

            “Entirely beside the point,” he growled. “How did you get here?”

            Pompey shrugged. “Inverse application of the Law of Propensity.” Tallis stared; Pompey acquiesced. “I made a door between our rooms.”

            “Well, why don’t you go and test to see if it’s still working,” Tallis grumbled, slouching down and pulling the blankets up to his chin. “I’m trying to sleep.”

            Pompey snorted softly. “I can’t.”

            “Hmm?”

            “I can’t sleep,” Pompey elaborated slowly, as if talking to a child.

            Tallis didn’t miss the underlying insecurity. He rolled over onto his side, his head nestled against Pompey’s thigh, and absently patted his knee. “What’s wrong?” he mumbled.

            Pompey sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted begrudgingly.

            “You don’t know?” Tallis repeated incredulously, tempted to push the other man out of his bed for such infuriating vagueness. “What if you go back to your own room and figure it out, then come and wake me up _in the morning_ with the answer.”

            “It _is_ the morning,” Pompey replied with a glare. Tallis felt an urge to shoot something.

            “Have you even _tried_ getting to sleep, or did you come in here with the specific intention of annoying me?”

            “As if I haven’t anything better to do with my time than encroach upon yours,” Pompey scowled.

            “Have you tried counting sheep?” Tallis grumbled. Pompey’s frown deepened. “Have you tried counting _magical_ sheep, if ours aren’t good enough for you?”

            “Tallis, must you be so irksome?”

            “If you don’t appreciate it,” Tallis snapped, “then go back to your own room!”

            Pompey huffed and swung out of the bed, stalking to the blank stretch of wall by the window. Then he stopped.

            “It’s gone.”

            “Hmm?” Tallis mumbled into his pillow, having already let himself start to drift back off.

            “The door is gone,” Pompey repeated.

            “Then make another one!”

            “I can’t!” Pompey growled. “I need my notes, and they are on my desk, which is on the other side of this wall!”  
            “Can’t you _improvise?”_ said Tallis nastily, earning himself a defensive glower and a pair of very cold feet next to his. He shouted and tried to push the taller boy out, but Pompey was incredibly stubborn.

            “If I can’t get back to my room –” he started explaining, but Tallis cut him off.

            “You could try the ingenious method of exiting via the established door, scampering the five feet to your own room and entering it the traditional way,” Tallis snapped, “or is that too _irksome_ for you?”

            Pompey poked him in the ribs, eliciting an undignified oath of protest. “Too dangerous,” he said. “The wardens patrol those corridors, and I can’t afford that kind of mark on my –”

            “It’s _five feet!”_ Tallis groaned.

            “Too risky.”

            “Too –” He cut himself off with an impatient huff.

            “Too many variables undelineated.”

            Tallis punched his pillow into shape, rolled over and firmly tugged away the covers. In retaliation, Pompey simply shifted closer and wrapped himself around Tallis’ waist, shoving his freezing feet firmly against his calves. Tallis cried out and tried to wriggle away, but Pompey held him firmly in place.

            _“Get – off – me,”_ Tallis snarled.

            “Then give me the blankets,” Pompey retorted in a voice almost as cold as his toes.

            “They’re my blankets, go and get your own!” Tallis yelped. “Summon them with your _magic wand!”_

            Pompey sighed in mock disappointment. “I have told you time and again, Tallis: such magical practices are outdated and redundant in this day and age.”

            Tallis grumbled under his breath, but made no reply other than to wrench the pillow out from under Pompey’s head, fold it in half and ram it under his own.

            “I _demand_ half of the pillow,” Pompey said evenly.

            “My bed,” Tallis retorted, “my pillow – my rules.”

            “It’s _democracy,”_ Pompey insisted.

            “Bugger democracy, you’re in my bed!” Tallis cried. “I have every right to –”

            Pompey interrupted him by forcefully pushing at the back of Tallis’ head and ripping the pillow away from him. Thus ensued an awkward tug-of-war over Tallis’ shoulder, each man refusing to let go. Tallis attempted a sort of backwards Torremanian Twist which he botched spectacularly, and Pompey considered casting a spell but decided he was too tired to risk accidentally tearing off one of their limbs. Eventually, the pillow emitted a loud rending sound, and both men froze. Tallis was acutely aware of Pompey’s ankles, tangled with his own and measuring somewhere slightly above sub-freezing on his mental thermometer. They both let go of the pillow at the same time, and Tallis punched it into place before turning back over and dropping down onto it.

            Pompey was significantly more tentative as he slid his arm around Tallis’ chest again, his other hand trapped between them. He settled his head on the pillow and briefly considered trying not to breathe on the back of Tallis’ neck, but decided against the notion of suffocation by awkward proximity.

            “That tickles,” Tallis grumbled.

            Pompey made no reply.

 

            “Why do you have _four_ sets of cricket whites?”

            Tallis opened his eyes with a groan.

            “And _what_ , pray tell, happened to the back cover of your copy of Silverton’s _Approaches to Political Science_?”

            Tallis rolled onto his back, faintly registering that the bed was still a bit warm on Pompey’s side, to see his friend crouched in front of his bookcase, rifling through the volumes with an air of lofty disdain and considerable, badly-masked, interest.

            “What –” His voice cracked from sleep, and his cleared his throat before trying again. “What are you still doing here?”

            “Gathering intelligence,” Pompey replied absently, moving over to the dresser and opening the top drawer. He held up an orange sock pinched between two fingertips. “Do you even _know_ where the other half of this pair is?”

            Tallis groaned again and buried his head under the pillow, then suddenly shot out of the bed and dashed across the room. He dragged Pompey away from the dresser and sat him firmly down before his desk.

            “There,” he said firmly. “Snoop however much you like.”

            Pompey’s mouth twisted in a vague estimation of a smirk. “What are you hiding in the top drawer of your dresser?” he asked slyly.

            “Nothing,” Tallis replied hastily. “Nothing at all. You just aren’t allowed to look in there.”

            “Well, if it’s _nothing,_ then –” He stood and stepped in the direction of the dresser, but Tallis gripped him by the shoulders and forced him back into the chair.

            “Look, my desk, my correspondence, my _bank details,”_ he said in panicked encouragement. “Gather away!”

            This time Pompey gave an unmistakeable smirk. “I’m _much_ more interested in your socks, to be honest.”

            “Notes from my mother,” Tallis continued, “my school fees – the Politics essay that’s due next Thursday!”

            “I’ve already read it,” said Pompey smoothly, “and if I may be totally honest, your commas are atrocious. So if you don’t mind –”

            _“Fine!”_ Tallis shouted, setting his hands on Pompey’s shoulders. “It – it’s your birthday present, all right?”

            Pompey stared. “You got me a birthday present?” he asked, momentarily dumbfounded. “How did you know when my birthday is?”

            Tallis grinned. “I gathered intelligence.”

            There was a moment of silence. “Does that mean I’m expected to get you something?” said Pompey.

            “Get me another orange sock,” Tallis deadpanned, “and go back to your _own room._ I need to get dressed.”

            Pompey huffed as if to say ‘Nothing I haven’t already seen,’ and walked out the door.


	5. June, 1884

            “I hear we will be assigned the same rooms after the summer break,” Pompey said one morning as he packed his trunk. Tallis was sitting on his bed, systematically unfolding all of his clothes and watching them refold themselves with something that wavered between suspicion and carefully distanced curiosity.

            “Unless we specifically request a change,” he added.

            Pompey didn’t look up from the books he was arranging, some to go in his trunk and some to remain at Greythorn. “Will you be doing so?” he asked calmly.

            “Of course not,” Tallis snorted. “Not unless you do. I don’t want to be chasing up and down the college every time I require a discerning eye for commas.”

            Pompey’s mouth twisted in amusement. “I suppose we will be seeing each other after the break then.”

            “And I suppose you will have spent the entire time practising your little spells,” Tallis muttered, vaguely sullen.

            “Don’t pretend you won’t be using every waking moment to perfect those defensive moves of yours,” Pompey retorted smoothly.

            Tallis bristled. “They’re not _all_ defence,” he snapped. “The course is called Physical _Offence_ and Defence for a reason, after all.”

            Pompey said nothing to this, just shooed Tallis off his bed with a frustrated flap of his hands and started stacking his clothes in his trunk. Tallis hopped to his feet with a sigh and wandered across the room, tapping his fingers idly against the walls and the spines of books. By the bed, Pompey had unearthed a few loose sheets of paper from between two of his shirts.

            Tallis came to a stop in front of the calendar on the wall and stared at it, unseeing. “Pompey,” he said, causing the other man to grunt and half-lift his head from what appeared to be old exercises on Catalytic Magic. Tallis took this as sufficient acknowledgement to proceed. “How do you suppose I’d look with a moustache?”

            There was a noticeable lack of speech from the bed on which Pompey now sat, frowning at his notes. He hummed vaguely, and a little too late, as he plucked a pencil from his bedside table and scratched out a line of wiggly glyphs, obliterating whatever mammoth error he had committed four months ago. “Oh. Yes,” he finally said, properly looking up now that the mistake had been rectified. “Awful,” he pronounced flatly. “Why do you ask?”

 

            On the first day of the next school year, Pompey strode up to Tallis as he unloaded his boxes from the school train, the budding magician having been driven by his family chauffeur.

            “I told you it would look rubbish,” he said curtly, and wandered away with Tallis’ correspondence case. “I’m putting it in your room,” he added over his shoulder, pre-empting Tallis’ cry of pique.

 

            By the next morning, the moustache was gone.


	6. October, 1884

            “Excuse me.”

            Pompey looked up from rummaging in his bag to be faced with the broad chest and shoulders of James Easton, eldest of the three brothers. He was in his final year of university ( _Thank God,_ thought Pompey), and seemed to have made it his goal to intimidate and harass Pompey even more than usual to make up for the time he would lose in the future. Rolling his eyes, Pompey tried to sidestep him, but James cut him off.

            “Easton, for goodness’ sake,” Pompey sighed exasperatedly, “I have a lecture to attend. Haven’t you some first-years to torture?”

            “No,” James replied with a nasty grin. “Just you.” With that, he grabbed the strap of Pompey’s bag from his shoulder and pulled it away, taking out a rather ancient book and dangling it by the front cover. It had taken two weeks for Pompey to convince his Magic and the Military lecturer to give him permission to take it from the rare books archive in the library, and if it wasn’t returned in one piece, he was liable to be punished – _severely._

            “Give it back, Easton,” said Pompey through gritted teeth, watching the book sway dangerously and just waiting for the cover to tear.

            “No, I don’t think I will,” James said with a cruel smirk, dropping Pompey’s bag into a nearby bush – upside-down, of course, so that its contents spilled across the earth. Pompey stood his ground, desperate to take back the book but fearful of exacerbating the problem and ruining the precious object himself.

            James took the book in one hand, holding it by the spine and letting the covers fall back with a sickening _crack_. He flicked through the pages, feigning ponderous interest, and Pompey winced at the sound of a page ripping at the corner.

            “Easton, that book is more valuable than your entire family estate,” Pompey growled, “and certainly more so than you yourself. _Give it back.”_

            James looked up at this, calculating. His eyes narrowed wickedly, and he took a random page in hand and held it from the top, right by the spine. He began to pull.

            _“No!”_ Pompey darted forward to try to force the book from him, but he’d barely brushed the cover before he found himself being physically lifted off his feet and thrown aside, hitting the ground hard. Bruised and slightly winded, he rolled into a sitting position, but in the instant before he even managed to contemplate rising to his feet, James took the page firmly in hand and _ripped._

            “NO!” Pompey shouted in horror, to absolutely no avail. James laughed wickedly, but he was cut off quite abruptly as a blur of muscle and tweed slammed into him from behind. Pompey quickly snapped out a spell to slow the fall of the flying book, and he twisted to his feet to fetch it and set its pages to rights, carefully replacing the torn one in its place. When he turned around, it was to find James Easton pinned to the ground, his arm twisted painfully behind him and Tallis’ knee in his back.

            “You all right, Pompey?” Tallis asked, his breathing just slightly heavier than usual, not taking his eyes off the back of James’ head.

            _“I’m_ fine,” Pompey drawled, cradling the book in his arms like the precious artefact it was. “This book, however, is _not.”_

            Tallis hummed, deep in mock thought. “Somehow, I doubt Professor Tregennis will be quite pleased with that,” he growled, tugging harshly on James’ arm and pulling a sound from him that was halfway between a whimper and a snarl. “How about we and go inform him of such an _unfortunate_ accident?”

 

            With Tallis by his side, James didn’t dare touch Pompey again. While the professors usually ignored the Easton brothers’ attacks as the antics of foolish young men finding their feet, Professor Tregennis was outraged at the damage that had been done to his book, and promptly frogmarched James to the office of the Dean of his college when they told him what had happened, demanding recompense. Outside Tregennis’ office and ostensibly ignoring the sour glances James shot back over his shoulder, Pompey gripped Tallis’ arm.

            “Thank you,” he said quietly, not looking at him. Tallis smirked, and clapped Pompey on the back in a gesture he knew the taller man hated.

            “It was my pleasure,” he quipped. “Any opportunity to get back at those damn Eastons is one to be taken with relish, I believe.”

            “Get back?” Pompey repeated, glancing down at him. “Whatever have _you_ to repay them for? They’ve never laid a hand on you.”

            Tallis shrugged. “But they have applied themselves to the hobby of making your life hell,” he said.

            Pompey said nothing, just turned away to stalk back down the corridor, Tallis quickly catching up to walk by his side.

            “We work surprisingly well together, you know,” he said quietly. Pompey made a low, unintelligible noise, specifically tailored to express neither the affirmative nor the negative. Tallis smirked at the familiar sound, easily interpreting the awkward agreement it held. As they stepped outside, headed in the direction of their college, Pompey’s arm stole carefully into Tallis’, linking them together at the elbow, though his gaze remained obstinately ahead.


	7. December, 1884

            Pompey was experimenting with the size of his notebook when the letter arrived. He tore it open and scanned it once before letting out the most awful of groans. Tallis glanced up from his seat by Pompey’s desk and smirked.

            “Unwelcome news?” he teased.

            Pompey glared at him. “The manor is being redecorated over Christmas,” he said sullenly. “Mother will be _insufferable.”_

“Have you anywhere else to stay?” Tallis asked, dropping his humorous tone at Pompey’s gravity.

            “No,” said Pompey, disgust curling his lip. “I can’t _stand_ it when Mother starts messing about with the house,” he glowered. “It’ll be the worst two weeks since she decided we needed a lake on the grounds.”

            Tallis was having a hard time believing the upper-class pomposity of Pompey’s complaints, but he still felt for his friend.

            “You can come and stay at the farm, if you like,” he suggested. “We haven’t got a lake or a manor, but at least there’s no chance of redecorating mothers.”

            “Is there room for me?” Pompey asked, not even trying to hide his contempt. Tallis shrugged it off.

            “You can stay in my room,” he said. “I’m sure Father can dig up an old camp bed for you. And we’ll have another hand with the animals.”

            _“Animals?”_ Pompey repeated, as if the concept was both alien and loathsome to him.

            Tallis chuckled. “Yes, Pompey, _animals,”_ he said playfully. “Don’t worry, we won’t have you mucking out the stables or anything _too_ strenuous for your precious little magician’s hands. Just helping feed the chickens and the like. Easy jobs like that.”

            Pompey regarded him for a moment. “Are you certain I’ll be welcome?”

            “Of course,” said Tallis. “I’m sure my parents will be thrilled to have you about.”

 

            As it turned out, Tallis’ parents weren’t _precisely_ ‘thrilled’ to have another young man staying for Christmas. Pompey listened at the door as Tallis argued with his parents, hearing phrases such as “another mouth to feed” and “what will we do with him” that he’d only ever come into contact with in novels. Tallis, though, was absolutely unmoveable, and after fifteen minutes, his parents were forced to comply with his plans.

            The farm wasn’t as large as Pompey had feared. The house was little more than a two-storey cottage, with a small stable and hayloft backing onto it. Facing this was a large pig pen and a similarly large chicken coop, and, beside it all, one great paddock containing three cows, two horses and a handful of mangy sheep.

            Tallis’ room was small, but oddly cosy. The bookshelf, desk and wardrobe crammed into the restricted space were mostly empty, and the bed was only a single, tucked in beneath the window on the sloped half of the ceiling. Once the camp bed was set up beside it, there was barely enough floor space for the light amount of luggage Pompey had brought, and manoeuvring two people about the room at once was a dangerous task. The afternoon they settled in, Tallis almost sprained his ankle and Pompey ended up with a rather impressive bruise on his left hip.

            He slept fitfully the first night, unused to the environment as he was. The next morning, Tallis woke him before dawn with a snicker and dragged him downstairs to outline his duties. He taught him what feed to give the chickens and the pigs and how to use the stove (as Tallis’ mother had outright refused to make breakfast for anyone but herself and her husband), and promised that he wouldn’t have to wake Pompey quite so early for the rest of his stay.

            It was surprisingly easy to fall into the routine of the farm. His chores were simple, and he quickly figured out how best he liked his eggs, after a few spectacular failures in which Tallis assisted only by laughing so hard that his eyes began to water. There was only the briefest of awkward moments the first time they had to change in the same small room, until Pompey admitted that he’d already gone through Tallis’ luggage, and “your underclothes are at least a size too small, there’s really nothing to be prim about,” which certainly shut Tallis up and ensured that they were absolutely comfortable changing together.

            It wasn’t until the third night that something went _really_ wrong.

            At some ungodly hour of the morning, Pompey happened to shift in just the wrong way and somehow managed to collapse the camp bed beneath him. He hit the floor hard, the wind knocked from his lungs. Pieces of wood and fabric pressed in at awkward angles; he sighed in frustration.

            He tried to extricate himself from the mess. The more he struggled with the contraption, though, the worse the situation became. The camp bed simply got more and more tangled with itself and its occupant until Pompey was hopelessly trapped. He planned out a quick spell in his head, but had barely uttered two syllables before Tallis reached out to grip his arm painfully tight.

            “Not in my room, you don’t,” he growled threateningly. Pompey glared at him.

            “Then I suggest you try to help me out of this infernal thing,” he whispered, the darkness making him keep his voice down even though Tallis’ parents’ room was on the opposite side of the house.

            Tallis climbed, grumbling, out of bed and began wrestling with the camp bed. Together, he and Pompey managed to flatten it out long enough for the latter to escape its clutches. Unfortunately, though Tallis immediately flopped back into his own bed, it was clear that Pompey no longer _had_ a bed in which to sleep.

            “Tallis,” he started uncertainly, and the other man grumbled into his pillow and pulled back the covers.

            “Get in,” he ordered sleepily. “And keep your damnably cold toes away from me.”

            It was a bit of a squeeze, but they managed to both fit into the bed relatively comfortably. Luckily, comfort wasn’t a major concern for either of them, and they were so tired that they dropped off almost immediately.

 

            In the morning, Pompey took his cue from Tallis and didn’t mention the destruction of the camp bed to Tallis’ parents. As they met up between chores later on, Tallis tugged at his sleeve and pulled him aside behind the chicken coop.

            “Thank you for the tact,” he said in a low voice. “My parents... Well, they can be quite – _conservative._ If they knew I was sharing a bed with another man, they’d assume the worst and probably disown me, at the absolute least. They don’t seem to believe that friendship and... _physical closeness_ are actually related.”

            Pompey’s mouth twisted into its little, amused half-smirk. “I understand,” he said.

 

            Christmas dinner was one of the grandest affairs Pompey had ever attended, which was a surprise in and of itself, to say the least. Tallis’ mother seemed to pride herself on her cooking, and she whipped up an incredibly extravagant meal that could probably have fed a small village for a week. After the exchange of a few meagre presents, and with bellies full of turkey and far too much brandy, Pompey and Tallis stumbled upstairs, giggling breathlessly at a joke neither of them could remember and clinging to the handrail and each other in an attempt to remain upright.

           They reached Tallis’ room, shrugging inefficiently out of their jackets and fumbling half-heartedly with ties and waistcoat buttons before giving up and simply collapsing onto the bed, keeping close to each other for warmth. When Tallis half-heartedly pulled the blankets up, depositing them somewhere over their waists, Pompey leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, rolling onto his unbruised hip and slinging his left arm across Tallis’ chest. Tallis turned to him, still laughing, and their mouths met sloppily, greedily. They kissed for a long moment, Pompey pressing himself harder and harder against Tallis’ side, moving almost on top of him and tilting the other man’s chin with strong fingers, Tallis’ hand on the small of his back. When they finally broke for air, they fell back onto the pillows, which proved overwhelmingly soft and comfortable. They were asleep within seconds.

 

            The next morning, Pompey woke to a splitting headache and the rumble of a groan by his ear, reverberating through Tallis’ chest. He buried his face in Tallis’ shoulder, trying to block out the light coming through the window above them and letting his memories trickle back. He froze.

            “Um – Tallis,” he said, his voice hoarse and weary, muffled by Tallis’ shirt. He felt, more than heard, the answering hum of acknowledgement. “Last night.”

            Tallis stiffened beneath him. “We –” He cleared his throat heavily and tried again. “Did we –”

            Pompey chuckled self-deprecatingly into Tallis’ shoulder. “Definitely not mentioning that one to your parents,” he rasped, causing Tallis to laugh, followed immediately by a terrible, pained groan.

            “I feel like sleeping for a decade,” he murmured.

            “I’ll be joining you,” Pompey added, making them both smirk.

 

            The rest of the break was uneventful, but comfortable. Pompey continued to share Tallis’ bed, and it wasn’t long before they no longer bothered to remain on their respective sides, curling together with arms and legs in an impossible tangle. They grumbled through their chores and Pompey became surprisingly good at fixing his own breakfast, and as the New Year came and went, Pompey, though still unused to his proximity to farm animals and all that they entailed, found himself rather wishing that he and Tallis could stay where they were, comfortably ensconced in the tiny room, their time together uninterrupted by Tallis’ parents, so engrossed in their farm as they were. The last few days of the break were spent in a flurry of put-off work – the tail-ends of essays and exercises and, in Pompey’s case, four hours’ standing by the pig pen and manipulating the mud, keeping a strict record of spells and their effects and watched constantly by the suspicious eye of Tallis.

            When they finally left for Greythorn, Tallis’ parents bid their son a heartfelt farewell, seeing Pompey off with barely-concealed disregard. The two men had chartered a carriage to take them to the train station just before dawn, and, having still been compelled to perform their farmyard duties before leaving, quickly fell asleep to the less-than-soothing clopping of the horse. Pompey sat slumped in the corner with his chin on his chest while Tallis stretched out on the seat opposite, and they woke only when the driver vigorously shook their shoulders once they’d reached the station. By then, the sun had risen well above the horizon, and fifteen minutes later, ensconced in the warmth of their compartment and with their luggage safely stowed in the overhead racks, they were leaning on each other’s shoulders fast asleep once more, fingers tangled limply on the seat between them.


	8. February, 1885

            Tallis needed help. And when Tallis needed help, he tended to demand it from Pompey Craddock.

            Unfortunately, the magician was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t anywhere near their rooms – if he were, no doubt Tallis would have been woken earlier, it being a Saturday – and he didn’t seem to be in the library. This left only the courtyard of the History building, which was usually quiet, cool and, most importantly, utterly deserted. So when Tallis found two people there, he was rather surprised, especially as he himself wasn’t one of them.

            Pompey was, of course. The other occupant of the courtyard was the plain-looking Pandora Winters, who appeared to be kissing Pompey senseless.

            Of course, appearances, as Tallis so well knew, could be deceiving.

            “Was there something you wanted, Tallis?” Pompey asked calmly, pulling away from Miss Winters’ lips and tucking his long fingers more firmly through her hair.

            Quashing his absolutely irrational anger, Tallis spoke in a voice that was almost as calm as his friend’s.

            “I was wondering if you could help me with the Military Politics assignment due next Monday,” he said evenly, determinedly not watching the way Pompey’s eyes were half-lidded, yet still exceptionally bright.

            Pompey hummed into Pandora Winters’ mouth, pulling away just slightly once more. “I will be in your room in –” He somehow made plunging one’s tongue down a young woman’s throat seem exceptionally contemplative. “Twenty-six minutes. I have to discuss an exercise with Professor Sommers.”

            “I see,” said Tallis with a kind of darkness that attempted rather lamely to feign disinterest. “In twenty-six minutes, then.”

            “Goodbye, Tallis,” Pompey called calmly between kisses, and Tallis turned on his heel and stalked off, very firmly _not_ envying the way Pandora Winters’ hand was slipping under Pompey’s jacket.

 

            It was a conundrum, thought Tallis, as he waited out the remaining eighteen minutes of Pompey’s absence by lying on his bed and glaring at the ceiling. Falling in love with one’s friend was always difficult, but when that friend was of the same sex, it made matters somewhat more complicated. After all, it was meant to be sinful. And improper. And, most importantly, _illegal._ Not to mention Pompey’s sudden apparent interest in women.

            Luckily for Tallis, things like propriety and legality tended to hold little sway in his decisions. Indeed, if he were entirely honest with himself, it added something of an exciting edge to the situation. Unfortunately, though, the needs and wants of his friend were somewhat more significant.

            He would let the matter lie, he decided, as he listened to Pompey’s footsteps coming down the corridor. It wasn’t urgent, and he foresaw plenty of time in which he could figure things out.

            His door opened and Pompey swept in with his usual manner of unaffected drama and single-minded lack of focus.

            “All right, Tallis, what part of the essay is giving you trouble?”

            He smirked and swung his legs from the bed.

 

            A week later, Pompey drifted into Tallis’ room on Sunday evening through the increasingly elaborate doors he continued to create in the wall between their rooms, sporting a rather spectacular black eye.

            “Pandora Winters,” he declared, apropos of nothing.

           Tallis glanced at him from the desk, raising his eyebrows. “Girl troubles?” he asked.

           “Not _troubles,_ precisely,” Pompey mused, lowering himself onto Tallis’ bed and staring at the same patch of ceiling that Tallis so often employed. “Miss Winters is a good kisser, and a better magician. Apparently, though, she doesn’t quite appreciate being used as an experiment.”

           “An _experiment?”_ Tallis repeated incredulously, turning properly around in his chair to stare at the young man on his bed.

           This was a mistake.

           The setting sun was streaming through the window, perfectly illuminating the bed in soft, orange tones not unlike a roaring winter fire, though significantly more beautiful. It fell across Pompey’s long form, stretched out on the bed in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves with his hands tucked behind his head, nestling in his pale hair, slightly tousled after a long day practicing defensive magic and falling in longish locks across Tallis’ pillow. The sun cast shadows in the oddest of places – behind Pompey’s ears, in the hollow of his groin between his lazily crossed legs; in the dips in his stockinged feet and ankles and the curve above his breastbone. Tallis found himself staring, and was infinitely glad of the ceiling’s ability to be fascinatingly absorbing.

           “Considering that I had never kissed a member of the opposite sex before Pandora, I should say that yes, she was an experiment,” Pompey was saying evenly. “I certainly had no intention to become her beloved, or whatever it is young couples do these days.”

           “That really is a ghastly way to treat someone, Pompey.” Tallis frowned, despite the vision laid across his mattress. Pompey sighed.

           “Come now, Tallis,” he said, “did you really expect anything more from someone like me?” He turned his head on the pillow, and his mouth twisted about with mirth, not actually smiling, but giving Tallis the familiar impression of one nonetheless.

           “True,” Tallis conceded. “I must be the only person you treat like a real human being.”

           Pompey seemed to contemplate him for a moment, and Tallis held his gaze evenly. “Yes, I suppose you might be right,” he admitted eventually, his voice unusually quiet. “I can’t see myself manipulating you as I did her.”

           Tallis snorted at this, and turned back to his work. “That’s an absolute lie, Pompey, and you know it,” he said lightly. A soft exhalation of amusement echoed from the bed.

           There was time. As much as he preferred action, it seemed this particular situation would be best encouraged by patience.


	9. April, 1885

            “Tallis, I don’t know anything about cricket.”

            “Of course you don’t,” Tallis grunted from where he stood by the mirror, shrugging into his waistcoat and adjusting his tie. “I’m not expecting you to sit in the stands and cheer me on, not by a mile. All I ask is that you meet me afterwards and come to the club with me. We are going to suffer the most spectacular loss of the season, and it isn’t even _May._ Surely a bit of moral support isn’t beyond even your sceptical social abilities?”

            Pompey sighed, momentarily dropping his copy of _Long-Distance Applications of the Law of Regression_ and rolling his eyes at Tallis. “All right, I’ll be there,” he conceded, though not without a considerable amount of irritation. “In which case, I must insist that you rescue me from my lesson on the Principle of Complexity next Wednesday.”

            Tallis frowned, glancing at Pompey’s reflection behind his in the mirror. “You? Skipping a magic lesson?” He snorted disbelievingly. “I thought you were devoted to the ridiculous stuff.”

            By this point, Pompey had simply stopped reacting to Tallis’ mistrust of magic. “I _am_ devoted,” he said flatly, sounding thoroughly uninspired. “But that doesn’t mean I feel obligated to spend an hour and a half of my time attempting to learn something I already know from a man who has done nothing to prove that his doctorate is _not,_ in fact, an unearned forgery.”

            “All right then,” said Tallis, pulling on his jacket and tugging at his cuffs. “I’ll be sure to arrange an elaborate kidnapping and telegram your parents demanding a healthy but not inconsiderable ransom by Tuesday.”

            “Or you could simply keep me company in the library.”

            “Or I could do that,” Tallis agreed, adjusting his tie one final time. “Though to be honest, I prefer my plan.” He smirked at his reflection, and watched Pompey’s mouth twist in amusement behind his book. He picked up his hat.

            “Meeting Miss McFarlane again, are you?” Pompey asked evenly, turning a page.

            “Yes,” Tallis grinned. “Linda agreed to have lunch with me today. We’ll go to the park, perhaps, find a nice place for dinner…”

            “Please, feel free to halt your inanity at any point in the discussion,” Pompey muttered sourly. Tallis chuckled.

            “Jealous, are we, Mister Craddock?”

            “Not in the least,” Pompey drawled. “I simply disagree with your choice in women.”

            “What’s wrong with Linda McFarlane?” Tallis asked defensively. “I find her to be a wholesome, intelligent and highly attractive young lady.”

            “She is also in my Magical Languages course,” said Pompey. “She is a temperamental, selfish girl, and a poor magician, at best.”

            “All the more reason to like her,” said Tallis with a gravity that fooled no one. “Don’t wait up for me, Pompey.” With which teasing remark he left the room, shutting the door firmly in his wake.

 

            At twelve minutes past midnight, Pompey was woken by his door clicking softly shut and the mattress beside him dipping beneath another’s weight.

            “Move over,” Tallis hissed, pulling off his jacket and shoes. Pompey reluctantly complied.

            “Is there something the matter with your bed?” he grumbled, shifting across until he was pressed against the wall on his left.

            “Linda McFarlane tried to set fire to it,” Tallis muttered, unbuttoning his waistcoat and fumbling angrily with his tie.

            “Really?” said Pompey curiously. “I didn’t hear you two pass by.”

            “We didn’t,” Tallis growled. “She used a spell written by her friend. Some long-distance claptrap.”

            “Her friend would be the outstanding Miss Pandora Winters, I suppose?” asked Pompey.

           “I thought you didn’t like Pandora?” said Tallis.

           “That doesn’t necessarily mean I can’t appreciate her magical talent,” countered Pompey. “What ended up happening to your bed?”

            Tallis scowled. “The mattress has been soaked with vinegar and the frame has turned to ash,” he said sullenly, pulling off his shirt. “I expect you to fix this in the morning.”

            Pompey huffed out an amused breath. “I did warn you against Miss McFarlane.”

            “And since when have I taken your advice on any matter, let alone that of women?” Tallis grumbled.

            “An inexcusable offence on the part of your character,” said Pompey with a yawn. “Come on, get in, I want to get at least _some_ sleep tonight.”

            Still muttering under his breath, Tallis dropped his socks on top of the rest of his clothes and slid under the blankets. He hissed when he came in contact with Pompey’s feet, clamping them firmly between his calves.

            “You’ve been in bed all night,” he complained in a whisper, “how are your feet still frozen?”

            “Haven’t the faintest,” Pompey murmured into the pillow, curling up and shifting closer to the warmth of Tallis’ body. He draped one hand over Tallis’ ribcage, the other curled between their chests, and let out a contented sigh.

            “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it?” Tallis mused quietly, looping one arm over Pompey’s shoulders. “A human hot water bottle.”

            Pompey’s breath hitched a few times in silent laughter, but he was asleep again too soon to contend Tallis’ accusation.


	10. September, 1885

            Pompey Craddock was in love, and his patience was wearing thin.

            There had been no more girls, thank goodness, though he’d spent all summer in a state of nervous frustration, refusing to write to Tallis and actively ask after his love life. He hadn’t _actually_ seen Linda McFarlane as a threat, though he’d detested her sloppy approach to magic – he’d simply known how badly she would end up treating his friend.

            This hadn’t stopped him hating her, though. The thought that she had probably been allowed to kiss Tallis ( _while actually sober,_ his brain added) irked him entirely too much to be normal. The idea that she might have had the opportunity so firmly denied to him – the chance to touch without inhibition, to gaze and lick and hold – was almost too much to bear. How dare the world take such an opportunity from him and give it to _Linda McFarlane,_ of all undeserving people. Sarah Thistlethwaite, who came to the occasional rugby match, he could have endured – at least she was level-headed enough to have realised her luck. Or perhaps Joanna Broadbridge, who had taken Albionish Politics with them in their first year and had at least shown some hints of tact and wit. But _Linda McFarlane?_

            And now, every time Tallis sprawled in his armchair or leaned against his windowpane, Pompey was rendered helpless by his thrice-damned emotions. The tilt of his head when he tried to hide his smile, and the way he frowned but no longer protested when Pompey did magic in his company – they were tantalising, fascinating, all-encompassing. When he was around Tallis, Pompey felt warmer and a bit more whole than usual. Tallis kept him grounded. He kept him safe when he could not do so himself, and honoured Pompey’s need to try to defend himself first. More and more, Pompey found that life without Tallis was something resembling torture. The summer break had been hellish, not just because his father had died, but because Tallis was the only person who would have known what to do, and yet he had not been there to do it. Tallis was swiftly becoming a part of Pompey’s everything, somewhere on par with his studies and ambitions.

            But of course, Tallis had shown no inclinations toward returning the feeling. They were close, yes, but never more than platonic, never more than _friends._ The more that was denied to him, the more Pompey wanted it, and he was afraid – more than anything else – that he would not only miss his chance, but that it would never present itself at all.


	11. November, 1885

            Taking a break from rugby practice, Tallis jogged across the oval to where Pompey was sitting, nose buried in the thick tome in his lap.

            “Pompey!” he called as he approached. The magician’s head rose slowly, his eyes still glued to the page, just finishing a paragraph before properly greeting his friend.

            “Good afternoon, Tallis,’’ he said stiffly, the subtle warmth in his expression betraying his actual feelings. “How’s the rugby going?”

            “Well, well,” Tallis replied absently, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “What are you doing?”

            “Research,” said Pompey simply, getting to his feet. The corner of his mouth crooked. “And what are you doing?”

            Tallis frowned. “Rugby practice?” he said, the ‘obviously’ implicitly attached. Pompey rolled his eyes.

            “Yes, I can see that, Tallis,” he said. “But I can’t imagine _why.”_

            “It helps to keep my fitness up,” Tallis said with a shrug. “Not to mention that I find both the sport and the company enjoyable.”

            “Even more so when I come to watch, of course,” said Pompey evenly, causing Tallis to grin.

            “Of course,” he chuckled.

            “What will you do with it all, then?” Pompey asked after a moment.

            “What will I _do?”_ Tallis repeated.

            “After all… _this,”_ Pompey elaborated, gesturing at the oval, the surrounding buildings, the distant crowds. “University, education…”

            Tallis shrugged. “I was thinking of something in the military,” he said.

            It was Pompey’s turn to laugh, a short, low snicker from deep in his chest. “I can’t say I see you working well under someone else’s orders,” he said.

            “Which would be why I intend to get promoted,” said Tallis. “Besides, it won’t be for long – I intend to make my way into Special Services as soon as I can.”

            “Special Services?” Pompey repeated. “Oh dear.”

            Tallis looked him up and down, then shook his head with a groan. “You’ve got plans for the Magisterium, haven’t you?” he growled. A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. “This could get interesting.”

            “Who knows,” said Pompey lightly. “Perhaps we will both rise to the tops of our respective departments and bring about a new age of peace.” His mouth twisted about with amusement for a moment, while Tallis barked with laughter.

            “That will certainly be the day,” he said.

            “You never know,” Pompey mused, looking away across the oval. “After all,” he added, his voice suddenly soft, as if wary of eavesdroppers and spies – “we do work remarkably well together.”

            Tallis looked up and watched him carefully. Pompey made no move to allow himself to be caught in the smaller man’s gaze, staring obstinately at the buildings beyond the lawn, and Tallis wondered just what he was implying, beneath the surface of his words.

            A cry echoed over from the centre of the oval, and Tallis glanced over his shoulder to where the rest of his team-mates were standing, waving him over.

            “Back to work, I suppose,” Pompey murmured, still not looking down.

            “We should be finished in another hour or so,” said Tallis. “Will I meet you back at the college?”

            “No, I think I’ll stay here,” said Pompey. “It’s a surprisingly good place to study, you know.”

            Tallis grinned lopsidedly. “I’ll come back later then.” He slung one arm perfunctorily around Pompey’s waist, tugging him close for just a moment. The magician managed to raise one hand to Tallis’ muddy back, but had little time to hold on, as he was soon running off across the oval again.

            Settling back down on the grass, Pompey crossed his legs and went back to his book, glancing up every now and then to keep track of his friend.


	12. February, 1886

            Tallis was busy with his Military Tactical Analysis research when he felt the strangest sensation in his chest. It was a twisting, pressing ache, a bit like heartburn and a lot like how he felt when Pompey lay on his bed reading, the sunlight settling in his pale hair and emphasising the shadows in his cheeks and throat. He leaned over from the force of the feeling, pushing his chair away from his desk and pressing his palm to his breast, struggling to breathe – then, only seconds later, it passed, leaving behind only a grimace and a vague sense of nausea.

            Frowning, Tallis straightened, took a deep breath, and was about to return to his books when a low, pained groan echoed from the next room, followed by the unmistakeable sound of a body tumbling to the ground. Tallis turned in his chair to face the opposite wall.

            “Pompey?” he called anxiously. There was no reply. “Pompey, are you all right?” He stood, hurrying out into the hall and knocking on his friend’s door. “Pompey, what’s going on?”

            There was no reply.

            His breath quickening, Tallis tried the handle – locked. With an expression somewhere between a grimace and a frown, he put his shoulder to the wood and forced his way into the room.

            Pompey lay in a crumpled heap in the middle of the floor, trembling alarmingly, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts. Tallis dropped to his knees beside him and turned him onto his back, fear burying its way into his veins at the dead weight his friend had become.

            “Pompey,” he called softly, trying to shake his shoulders as gently as possible. “Pompey, look at me.” The magician’s only response was to skip one of his precious, stilted breaths, and Tallis’ hands moved to grip the sides of his head. _“Look at me,”_ he repeated insistently, telling himself that the waver in his voice was adamantly _not_ desperation. Pompey made no move to comply. “God damn it, man, _open your eyes!”_ Tallis shouted, forcing his way through the lump in his throat.

            Finally, finally, Pompey groaned quietly. Tallis’ breath left him in one, relieved rush, and he gently tapped his friend’s cheek with one fingertip.

            “Pompey, open your eyes,” he said encouragingly. _“Please.”_

            Pompey’s eyelids flickered for a moment, then he groaned again, stronger this time, a slight frown appearing between his brows. His eyes opened wearily and immediately focused on Tallis’ gaze.

            “Tallis…” he breathed, the corner of his mouth tugging into a weak imitation of a smile.

            “Pompey, what on earth happened?”

            He closed his eyes and breathed for a moment, turning his face into Tallis’ hand. “Magic,” he answered simply. “Experimental. It didn’t work.”

            “That’s certainly apparent,” Tallis replied, the playfulness in his voice entirely negated by the worry pulling at his brow. “Hold on,” he said gently, “I’ll fetch a doctor.”

            “No –” Pompey protested earnestly, opening his eyes again, his fingers tugging feebly at the hanging end of Tallis’ open waistcoat. “Stay,” he whispered.

            Tallis stared at him for a long moment, then nodded firmly. “All right,” he conceded. “But you can’t stay down here forever. Can you stand?” Pompey seemed to mull over the question for a moment before shaking his head faintly. “I’ll carry you, then,” Tallis concluded, shifting his weight onto his feet. Pompey tried to object, but Tallis simply wormed his arms under his shoulders and knees and lifted him into his arms, carrying him across the room and depositing him gently on the bed.

            Before Pompey could stop him, Tallis dashed to the door and grabbed the nearest person – a frightened first-year leaving the room opposite.

            “Fetch a doctor,” he instructed, the command in his voice unquestionable and sending the boy scurrying off down the hall. Tallis hurried back to Pompey’s bedside and sat on the edge of the mattress, gripping long, thin fingers between his own; they were cold.

            “Pompey, what have you done…” he whispered despairingly. Pompey’s only reply was his eyes slipping closed and his fingers going slack in Tallis’ hand.

 

            The general consensus, from two doctors and a number of concerned professors, was that Pompey had overtaxed himself with experimental magic and needed simply to rest for a week or so. Tallis spent all of his spare time in Pompey’s room, in between classes, in the evenings; he even considered setting up a camp bed for himself, until Pompey suggested that they simply share his. He would never have proposed the notion himself, of course – but once it was offered, he could hardly be expected to refuse. He told himself (and the few who dared question the action) that he needed to keep a wary eye on his friend in case his condition worsened, and the single bed was the most efficient way to do so during the night. It was only when he was alone, walking between classes or sitting, unfocused, in a particularly dull lecture, that he even began to admit to himself that he was, in fact, being over-cautious, and that he rather relished the opportunity to share a bed with the young man with whom he had, apparently, fallen in love.

            One evening, near the end of the week, while Pompey was studiously reading up on the lectures he’d missed, Tallis got up from the bed (he was having a hard time not calling it _theirs_ in his head) and started wandering about the room. He sat down at the desk and began rifling through the notes that still lay there.

            “What are you doing?” Pompey asked suspiciously, making a valiant effort at hiding the lingering hoarseness in his voice. Tallis smirked to himself.

            “Gathering intelligence,” he said. “Are these the notes from the spell you were trying?” he added, holding up two sheets of carefully scribed nonsense.

            Pompey, in an entirely uncharacteristic gesture, seemed to be biting the inside of his lip. “Yes,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.

            “What were you _doing?”_ Tallis asked, scanning the unintelligible glyphs. It was clear that Pompey was unsettled by the conversation, as became even more evident with his next, evasive statement.

            “Nothing.”

            Tallis raised his eyebrows, looking steadily over his shoulder at the man in the bed.

            “It all came to nothing, anyway,” Pompey sighed. “What does it matter, now?”

            “What are you hiding from me?” Tallis asked sharply.

            _“Nothing,_ Tallis,” Pompey insisted. “It was a rash experiment, and I’d rather not expose my flaws, thank you. Not even to you,” he finished with a funny little twist to his mouth which, unusually, did nothing to assuage Tallis’ fears.

            Sometimes he hated that they were both good liars.

 

            “Professor Morgan?”

            The middle-aged lecturer on Ancient Magical Theory looked up from his lectern as Tallis approached, frowning curiously.

“I don’t believe I recognise you from my lectures,” he said, peering over his glasses.

            “No, my name is Tallis. I’m not studying magic.”

            Professor Morgan’s eyebrows went up. “Well then, I can’t see what you need me for, young Tallis.”

            “I need you to tell me what this spell is for,” said Tallis firmly, holding out the two pieces of paper he’d pinched from Pompey’s desk that morning. Professor Morgan took the papers and studied the writing for a long moment, glancing between the two different sheets.

            “I can tell you that this first sheet is nothing more than a draft,” he concluded eventually. “This looks like Craddock’s writing,” he mused, looking to Tallis for confirmation. He nodded. “I hear he has been invalided,” Morgan continued, not looking away. “Overtaxed himself, they say. You’re taking good care of him, I assume?”

            Tallis schooled his surprise into a small frown. “What makes you say that, Professor?” he said calmly.

            “I’ve seen you with him,” explained Professor Morgan, returning to his examination of the spell. “You seem to be good for him. This spell – is it what Craddock was working on when he…”

            Tallis considered lying, but decided it was a pointless endeavour. “Yes,” he said. “I just wanted to know what he’d be willing to risk his well-being for.”

            “It appears to be a – well, a _love_ spell,” Professor Morgan said with significant interest. “These things never work, of course, but it’s very well constructed nonetheless.”

            “A love spell?” Tallis repeated incredulously. Morgan continued to study the notes.

            “Yes. Variations on the Laws on Intensification, Entanglement...” He raised his eyebrows in approval. “A very safe application of the Law of Relevance. It seems to be attempting to work from the similarity between strong, platonic feelings and romantic emotions in an attempt to transform one into the other,” the professor explained. “In theory, of course, it would appear foolproof – but as I said, these kinds of spells never really work.”

            “Does it specify a target?” Tallis asked, taking back the notes and biting his tongue for the too-hasty question. Professor Morgan gave him a long, searching look.

            “No,” he finally said. “Probably some young lady from a nearby college, I suppose; young men will do strange things for love.”

            “You said that these kinds of spells never work,” said Tallis, mentally kicking himself for the blatant attempt to change the topic. He really wasn’t doing well today.

            “No, magical emotional manipulation has never worked,” Morgan explained. “It is approached again every few generations, but each time the experiments lead to nothing.”

            “Would the intended –” Tallis shied away from the word _victim_ – “target have been at all affected?”

            “Not in the way the caster would have wanted, no,” said Professor Morgan. “They would, perhaps, have felt some brief, physical side effects as the spell was cast – nausea or a tightness of the chest, perhaps, a petty imitation of the physical effects of being in love. But nothing permanent, and as I said – the recipient’s emotions would not have been altered.”

            Tallis mulled over the revelation for a short moment, pretending to be trying to read the symbols he knew he’d never understand. “Thank you, Professor Morgan,” he said absently, glancing up and back at the notes. As he turned to leave, Morgan called out to him.

            “You should know, Tallis,” he said steadily, “that Craddock would not have approached this topic lightly – no magician would. He would have read the articles, the records of previous failures; he would have known the spell to be an exercise in futility.”

            “Then why would he cast it?” Tallis asked, mainly to himself, but Professor Morgan smiled faintly at him.

            “He was desperate, Tallis,” he said simply. “Absolutely desperate to make someone fall in love with him. Someone he couldn’t live without, who helped him and understood him. Someone who was good for him.”

            Tallis stared, determinedly revealing nothing, despite Professor Morgan’s easy pleasantness.

            “Thank you, Professor Morgan,” he repeated calmly, and mounted the steps between the rows of benches and out of the theatre.

 

            When he returned to their rooms, Pompey was on his feet, rummaging through the detritus on his desk with an air of repressed agitation. He was still in his nightshirt.

            “Tallis, have you seen my spell notes?” he asked as his friend walked in, not looking up.

            “I have them here,” said Tallis flatly, holding up the two sheets of paper. Pompey froze. “I took them to Professor Morgan,” Tallis continued, his attempt at calm working perfectly. “He told me what it was.”

            Pompey slowly straightened, staring, blank-faced, at the surface of his desk. Tallis’ voice darkened.

            “Why?”

            “Tallis, you have to understand –” Pompey started, still not looking at the other man.

            “None of your prevarications, Pompey,” Tallis snapped, stepping further into the room and shutting the door behind him. “Why did you do it?”

            Pompey’s eyes slid shut. “Tallis, please,” he said in a low voice, “must we have this conversation? It didn’t work, after all – no harm done.”

            “It did resemble love, you know,” said Tallis harshly. “Just for a moment, it reminded me of how I felt lying with you in bed, or watching you read.” Pompey’s eyes snapped open, his gaze whipping over to his friend.

            “No,” he whispered. _“No.”_

            “But you couldn’t just ask, could you?” Tallis growled, advancing on the other man, who stumbled back, away from the desk. “You couldn’t just _tell_ me or _show_ me how you felt.”

            “Tallis, please, I didn’t think you could possibly –”

            “TRICKS AND SUBTERFUGE!” Tallis roared suddenly, throwing the notes down on the desk. “THAT’S ALL I AM TO YOU THEN, IS IT? JUST ANOTHER PUPPET TO BE TWISTED TO YOUR WILL?”

            _“Tallis –”_

            He stormed right up to Pompey. “Why do you always, _always_ have to do it this way, Pompey?” he snarled. “You always have to do things on your own, figure out your own solution without a single thought for anyone else’s capabilities!”

            “That isn’t how it is –” Pompey tried to interrupt, but Tallis spoke over him easily.

            “But of course, how could an insufficient, blundering fool like myself even _hope_ to be helpful to a man like _you?”_ he spat cruelly. “How could any ordinary mind live up to the expectations of one so vaulted and precious as your own?”

            They were moving slowly across the room, Tallis advancing and Pompey trying desperately not to retreat, but failing with each barefooted step.

            “Tallis, that isn’t how it is,” he said quickly, “don’t you see? We feel the same, it doesn’t –”

            “DON’T YOU DARE TELL ME IT DOESN’T MATTER, POMPEY CRADDOCK!” Tallis shouted. “DON’T YOU _DARE_ TRY TO PERSUADE ME THAT THIS IS NOTHING! YOU TRICKED ME AND TWISTED ME WITH NO REGARD TO MY WILL OR MY DESIRES! SO TYPICALLY _MAGICIAN_ OF YOU, ISN’T IT?”

            _“Please,_ Tallis, _please,_ don’t do this, you said it yourself, we work well together, I _need_ you –”

            Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tallis registered that Pompey was begging, that he was saying ‘please’ more times in the space of a few minutes than he had in their entire acquaintance – but that place was very far back, buried behind his anger at such a betrayal.

            “I will have _nothing_ to do with you,” he growled, and Pompey broke. He seemed to be slowly but surely curling in on himself, his arms wrapped around his middle and his whole body hunching over, as if trying to physically protect his heart from Tallis’ attack.

            “Please,” he whispered, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. _“Please.”_

            “We are over.”

            Pompey sobbed, and he swooped in suddenly, his hands gripped tightly on either side of Tallis’ face as he kissed him soundly on the mouth. His lips were twisted with grief, his cheeks wet with tears, and Tallis didn’t know if it was a desperate attempt to get at least one proper kiss before they parted, or if it was just the last bargaining chip in another of the man’s manipulations. Either way, he was helpless to resist, returning the kiss roughly, hungrily, his own tears falling unbidden and mingling with Pompey’s.

            His hands came up to Pompey’s neck, cradling the pale skin that had so tantalised him. They slid to the bony shoulders that had proved unexpectedly comfortable to lay his head on, completely surprising him with their ability to lull him to sleep with the slow rise and fall of Pompey’s breath.

            Someone was letting out a choked sort of whimper, though Tallis found it oddly impossible to discern which of them it was (if, indeed, it wasn’t both). His hands fell to the front of Pompey’s nightshirt, and even as he seemed to be trying to fuse them together at the mouth, they twisted and tightened in the cloth. He broke away from Pompey’s lips and hurled the man away from him, throwing him at the wall even though he knew he was liable to bruise too easily in his still-weakened state.

            Silence fell, broken only by Pompey’s ragged breaths, echoing from where he curled beneath the window. He raised himself onto his hands and took a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes but not wiping away the tears that lingered there.

            He hauled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall behind him, and Tallis suddenly noticed how much thinner he was – just as thin as when he’d first met him, in fact, pushing himself up the wall outside this very room.

            Pompey’s chin jutted forward defiantly. “Then I suppose this is goodbye, _Tallis,”_ he said, his voice low and surprisingly strong beneath the shuddering.

            “I hope never to lay eyes on you again,” Tallis growled – _“Craddock.”_

            He turned and swept from the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

            All night, he couldn’t erase the sound of sobbing coming from the other side of the wall, a kind of twisted harmony to his own silent tears.

            In the morning, he shifted his furniture so that his dresser filled the gap between his bed and the window. He watched, that night, as a door appeared behind the dresser, unable to open against the heavy furniture. There came the unmistakeable sound of a body sliding down the wood, and he told himself that he didn’t care, nor would he evercare again, for the man who’d used him like any other pawn.

            He passed Professor Morgan in a courtyard a few weeks later. The professor gave him a sad look, but said nothing.

            To the rest of the world, they were simply Craddock and Tallis, two young men who had always been cold, fuelled only by ambition. They just moved in different circles now, their studies becoming too different for them to continue their association.

            It took two nights for the tears to dry. After twenty-two years, it still hadn’t stopped hurting.


	13. January, 1908

            “Where is your commander?”

            The woman looked up, startled, from her work inspecting the charring on one of the few wooden beams still standing.

            “Captain Tallis is over by the body,” she replied warily, “taking the constable’s statement. Who are you?”

            “Commander Craddock,” he said imperiously, hiding his surprise with impeccable skill – the operative couldn’t suspect that he was currently breaking inside. “Magisterium.”

            He swept off across the burnt-out room, skirting pockets of snow and ash, easily spotting Tallis with his head bowed, mulling over the words of the young constable before him. Pompey pushed away his unease and stalked up to him.

            “Captain Tallis?”

            He stiffened, but only very slightly. _Probably recognising my voice with a pang of disgust and loathing,_ thought Pompey darkly, and lifted his chin as the shorter man turned to him. He was older, of course – more weathered and lined than Pompey remembered – but he was still Tallis, still the dear, stubborn young man who had defended him against the Easton brothers, lain in his bed and stolen his heart.

            But that was behind them. This was now.

            “And you are?” Tallis asked, snapping Pompey from his masked reverie. He’d gotten even better at concealing his thoughts since university.

            “Commander Craddock of the Magisterium,” he said flatly, holding out his hand for Tallis to shake; it was ignored. “I believe this scene is under my jurisdiction.”

            “Like hell it is,” Tallis growled. “That’s one of _my_ agents with a knife in his back.”

            “Yes,” Pompey drawled, “and it was put there by magic. That makes this a _magical_ investigation – one of those run, oddly enough, by the Magisterium. Step aside.”

            “Special Services can handle it,” Tallis snarled through gritted teeth.

            “I’m certain your people can _handle_ it, _Tallis.”_ He spat the name with as much venom as he could muster, and watched the man’s mouth tighten beneath his moustache (which Pompey thought was just as rubbish as the first attempt, thank you very much). “But the matter will be solved much more effectively – not to mention more _quickly_ – with the Magisterium heading the investigation.”

            Tallis glared for a moment longer, then turned on his heel. “Stand down!” he called to his people, scattered about the scene. “The magicians are invading.” This last utterance was thrown over his shoulder along with a sour glance and the unspoken promise never to make things easier than they had any right to be for an untrustworthy, high-and-mighty, sneaking magician like _Commander_ Craddock.


	14. September, 1910

            Any summons from Sir Darius had to bode ill – but a summons which brought Craddock to the same room as Captain Tallis meant that something was seriously awry.

            “I take it this is important, Sir Darius?” said Craddock as he entered the Prime Minister’s office and sat before the desk, ignoring the surprised scowl Tallis shot in his direction – clearly he hadn’t been informed of his expected company either.

            “More has been revealed about Dr Tremaine’s recent plans,” said Sir Darius, all business, his hands folded over the report before him. “It concerns your respective services.”

            “I don’t mean to be rude, Prime Minister,” Tallis cut in, “but there is still much work to be done regarding Manfred and the fate of Count Brandt’s people. I’m certain this can wait.”

            “Tallis, I know how much you hate having to breathe the same air as Commander Craddock,” Sir Darius said wearily, “but I’m sure it’s possible for you to stand his presence for just a few minutes more.” He stared evenly at the Captain, who scowled, pursed his lips, then finally glanced over at Craddock and away.

            “Good,” said Sir Darius. “Now, as I said, there’s been more information regarding the foiled schemes of Dr Tremaine, and I’m afraid to say that you both fell perfectly into your intended roles.”

            “Us?” said Craddock, disbelief and offence lurking beneath his calm veneer. “I assure you, Prime Minister, the Magisterium has done nothing at all to further the plans of the ex-Sorcerer Royale.”

            “I’m afraid you have,” countered Sir Darius. “You _and_ Special Services.” He sighed long-sufferingly. “It seems part of Tremaine’s plan was to cause yet more friction between the two of you.” Craddock determinedly avoided Tallis’ gaze. “Rokeby-Taylor’s loyalties, the business with Count Brandt – Tremaine was specifically finding ways to divert your attention from more important matters and cause you to present a rather fractured defence.”

            “Futile,” Tallis snapped.

            “Obviously,” Craddock added curtly.

            Sir Darius raised one eyebrow. “Obviously,” he repeated calmly; Craddock tried not to bite his tongue. “As things stand,” Darius continued, “if you two can’t put aside your differences in practice, the least you can do is present an image of unity. I want you two on your _best behaviour_ in the coming months, especially in the eye of the public.”

            Neither man replied. Their stony silences were taken for agreement, and Sir Darius gave a satisfied smile.

            “Now, as to this united front,” he continued, “I believe I know the perfect occasion for it to begin. I assume you have both received invitations to Ophelia Hepworth’s upcoming exhibition?” Craddock nodded once, and Tallis grunted in the affirmative. “Aside from providing an opportunity for you _both_ to investigate the sudden departure of Professor Mansfield for Aigyptos, the exhibition is just the place for you to begin creating this new public image.”

            “I beg your pardon, Sir Darius,” said Craddock carefully – “but are you sure this plan is entirely necessary? After all, the Magisterium has had no troubles in its operations in the past, both without and in concert with Special Services.”

            Sir Darius levelled him with a mild glare. “Yes, Commander Craddock,” he said with finality, “it is _absolutely_ necessary. Even if I can’t encourage you to actually work together as professionals, the least I can do is convince the public that they aren’t at risk of an invasion due to the incompetence of the Defence staff while they are too busy bickering like a very sour, very powerful, and very old married couple. Do I make myself clear?”

            Craddock’s mouth tightened, and he shifted very slightly in his seat, his back straightening and his clasped hands twisting minutely. “Perfectly, Prime Minister,” he said, sharing a glance with Tallis.

            “Captain Tallis?” said Sir Darius, shifting his gaze from Craddock and onto the head of Special Services, who pursed his lips and nodded.

            “As crystal, sir.”

            “Very well, then,” said Sir Darius, apparently satisfied with their responses. “You are dismissed.”

            In one movement, Craddock rose smoothly and Tallis pushed himself from his chair. They reached the door at the same time, their calm exits stuttering to a halt. After a long moment of glaring and increasingly tense posture, Craddock reached out and pulled open the door, inclining his head slightly in stiff invitation. Tallis scowled and swept through, followed after the briefest of hesitations by the Commander.

            Out in the hallway, Tallis had already made a very swift bid for the stairs, his fists clenched at his sides, practically thundering out onto Credence Lane. Craddock watched him go as he followed at a more composed pace, feeling just as infuriated as the Captain seemed.

 

            After a rather more awkward conversation with Fitzwilliam and Doyle than either man would have preferred, Tallis and Craddock followed Sir Darius and Lady Rose into the gallery, though they didn’t tail the pair for the long. At the first opportunity, they wordlessly slipped away, heading for a discreet corner where they stood with a very respectable six inches of air between, Tallis’ hands immediately migrating to clasp behind his back.

            “Rude little bastard, that Doyle fellow,” he grumbled.

            “You’d call him ‘little’, would you?” Craddock replied smoothly. “When he was at least a head taller than you?”

            Tallis glared sidelong at him, but didn’t deign to reply. “Lady Rose is far too forgiving, in my opinion,” he complained instead. “‘Credit where credit is due’ indeed.” He snorted dubiously, and Craddock’s lips tightened.

            “Certainly, young Fitzwilliam’s actions must be appreciated,” he said flatly, clearly implying otherwise.

           “He needs to learn that he’s not the only hero,” Tallis added. They stared off in opposite directions, both men clearly wishing to be elsewhere, duty requiring that they stay put. After a moment, a sly, rueful smirk touched Tallis’ lips. He glanced up at Craddock and away again before their eyes could catch.

           “You realise,” he grumbled quietly, “that this is the exact attitude I’ve always held about the Magisterium.”

           “There is not much, Captain, that I do not realise,” Craddock replied icily, his eyes on the crowd of people before them.

           Tallis pursed his lips. “That doesn’t remove the fact that you agree – about exactly what you’ve always done yourself. _Commander.”_

           Craddock managed not to look highly offended. “I hardly think the similarity is justified.” Tallis snorted. “Our methods certainly don’t rely on the same kind of drama that young Fitzwilliam seems determined to employ. I presume that you were informed of how we cleared up the mess from Dr Tremaine’s first attempt on the bank.”

            Tallis paused, not looking up. “I heard reports,” he finally said. “You primarily employed _manual labour.”_

            With a non-committal hum, Craddock subtly shrugged off the implication. “We thought it the simplest solution, considering the rogue magic still working its way through the city.”

            “But it would have been more expedient to have used magic,” Tallis muttered.

            “Yes, it would have,” Craddock admitted coldly, watching the surrounding people with an air of detached calm, entirely belying the mounting tension between them.

            “Then why didn’t you?” Tallis asked, when no explanation seemed forthcoming.

            “Sometimes the old ways are best,” said Craddock evenly. He finally met Tallis’ incredulous glance. “You may not believe it, Captain Tallis, but I _am_ capable of learning from my mistakes.”

            Tallis pressed his lips together, his cheeks turning a faint but furious red. Without another word, he turned and swept off into the crowd. Craddock watched his back until it disappeared.

            “Pompey, there you are!”

            Ophelia Hepworth was approaching, suitably swathed in Oriental silks. Craddock’s eyes were immediately upon her, but she cast a significant glance after Tallis nonetheless, smiling slyly.

            “And what were you saying to the good Captain, Pompey?”

            “We were discussing business,” said Craddock curtly. “And you know I’d rather you refrained from using my given name.”

            Ophelia’s eyebrows went up. “You wouldn’t mind if our dear Captain used it,” she said mischievously, but dropped the levity at the sour expression that shuttered Craddock’s face. She sighed. “Don’t try to pretend to me that you aren’t still pining after him –”

            “I am not _pining_ after anyone –”

            “– I’ve known you both for far too long not to have caught on to whatever it is between you two –”

            “– and so you’ve known us long enough to have realised that it is _nothing,”_ Craddock hissed through his teeth. Ophelia just rolled her eyes.

            “Pompey, I do hope this isn’t some outdated notion of _immorality_ rearing its ugly head,” she tutted. “You _do_ realise that there isn’t anything the slightest wrong with those termed homosexual, don’t you?”

            “If you would kindly lower your voice, Mrs Hepworth,” said Craddock coldly.

            “Ophelia, dear,” she corrected. “Answer my question.”

            Craddock took a steadying breath. “Ophelia,” he snapped. “While I agree that the law is in the wrong, in this particular instance –”

            “Pompey, don’t be coy,” Ophelia scolded. “You oughtn’t pretend that you ordinarily follow the law to the letter. The rumours about your interrogation techniques are so outlandish that even the truth they’re based in must be extreme.”

            _“There is nothing between myself and Captain Tallis,”_ Craddock insisted, outwardly calm but inwardly seething.

            Ophelia’s eyes narrowed, but she seemed to come to no conclusion, instead taking his arm and leading him toward the centre of the exhibition. “Come along, Craddock,” she said. “According to the critics, I’ve done something extraordinary with light…”


	15. May, 1911

            “It appears Taylor is forcing us to work together.”

            Tallis glanced up from his desk to see Craddock standing in the doorway of his office, upright and proud. Did he never take off that infernal hat?

            “How did you get in here?” he snarled, redirecting his attention to the reports in front of him rather than the familiar, infinitely-changed curve of Craddock’s neck.

            “You must know by now that I have my methods,” Craddock drawled condescendingly. He stepped into the room and shut the door, physically restraining himself from muttering a spell to lock and seal it behind him. Tallis glanced suspiciously at his faintly flexing fingers for a moment before turning back to his work.

            “Whyever did you grow it back?” Craddock mused, standing in the corner and removing his hat.

            Tallis glared at him. “What are you on about?”

            “That moustache,” Craddock explained, with whatever passed for flippancy in his world. “Not to mention that awful _beard_ you had last year.”

            If possible, Tallis would have murdered him then and there. As it was, he simply scratched out a few notes and ignored him.

            “Captain Tallis –”

            _“Commander_ Tallis,” he corrected. Craddock glanced at him.

            _“Commander_ Tallis, then,” he said calmly. “This new system with the _Security Intelligence Directorate,”_ his lip curled nastily around the term, “means that we will have to consort on a regular basis. For this operation to run smoothly, we must agree to be at least _civil_ with each other.”

            “I have no intention of changing my methods,” Tallis grumbled to the reports. “Special Services is run the way it is run and the way it _works.”_

            “And the Magisterium –”

            “Magic Department,” Tallis interrupted flatly, hiding his glee at the demotion in nomenclature. Craddock glared at him.

            “The _Magic Department_ has its own ways as well,” he said smoothly. “Nevertheless – Taylor and Sir Darius _will_ make us cooperate, and I’d rather the transition be a smooth one.”

            Tallis sighed, and for a moment, the years weighed heavily on him. He dropped his pen, but didn’t look up. “What do you want from me, Craddock?” he growled.

            “I do not ask forgiveness,” he said evenly, as if discussing the underwhelming potency of his curry – “only that you at least manage to forget.”

            “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Tallis muttered, snatching up his pen once more, unable to hide the flush in his cheeks.

            “Don’t feign ignorance, Commander,” Craddock sneered. “You and I both know what the issue is between us.”

            “The only issue I see, is that my department is being forced to work with a group of stuck-up magicians who not only get in the way, but now see fit to try and make redundant the work that only we are able to do,” Tallis seethed. “Now – _Commander_ –” the title was dripping with venom – “if you would kindly leave my office, I have work to do.”

            Craddock stared at him for a moment longer, then swept from the room, deftly replacing his hat, his coat-tails flaring behind him. When the door had clicked shut behind him, Tallis leant his elbows on the desk and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

            There was absolutely no way he was going to survive this infernal reshuffle.


	16. June, 1911

            “Craddock.”

            He didn’t look up from his desk, carefully inscribing something on the papers before him. “How did you get in?”

            “As commander of the Special Services, I do have a substantial amount of authority extending beyond the boundaries of Lattimer Hall,” said Tallis. Craddock glanced up only momentarily as he closed the door.

            “Was there something you wanted, Tallis?” he asked.

            Tallis looked at him for a long moment before approaching the desk. “Stand up, Craddock,” he ordered.

            Craddock looked up, deliberately lowering his pen. “I am not in the habit of taking instruction, Commander,” he said – “especially not from you.”

            “You would have done what I wanted twenty years ago,” said Tallis, priding himself on how little his voice shook. Craddock said nothing, keeping their gazes locked. After a moment, he pushed himself slowly to his feet.

            “What is this about?” he asked, voice low and tentative. Tallis took a breath.

            “I forgive you.”

            Craddock, clearly shocked, made no attempt to move as Tallis spun on his heel and left, practically slamming the door behind him. It was only after a very long, very still moment that Pompey allowed himself a smile.


	17. July, 1911

            When a knock came at the door to Tallis’ office, he didn’t look up from the report he was reading, reclining in the chair behind his cluttered desk. He called out “Enter!” from where he sat; what he didn’t expect was a familiar, dark voice in reply.

            “Tallis?”

            He didn’t uncross his legs or start forward, however much he felt he should, though his eyes froze in place on the page he was reading, his mind refusing to take in any more. This was due not only to Craddock’s sudden appearance, but to the fact that he had never said Tallis’ name in a tone quite so inquiring and insecure.

            “Yes, Commander Craddock?” he said, attempting at authority.

           There was no reply, but the _click_ of the key in the lock echoed, quiet and unassuming, through the room. Craddock approached the desk, his footsteps distractingly firm.

            “Tallis, would you put down the report?” he said, hints of frustration and, strangely, _weariness_ showing through in his voice. Tallis very purposefully closed the folder and placed it on the desk before him, uncrossing his legs and sitting up. He was rather taken aback by the subtle worn-out look Craddock wore – there were shadows beneath his eyes, and his skin seemed paler than usual.

            “Was there something you wanted, Craddock?” Tallis asked stiffly.

            Surprisingly, Craddock didn’t speak at first, instead removing his hat and placing it on Tallis’ desk with great deliberation. He breathed, drawing himself up, and raised his eyes to meet Tallis’.

            “I am afraid to say that I am still in love with you,” he announced firmly. Tallis forced himself not to fall from his chair. “I am grateful beyond words for your forgiveness of – past indiscretions, and am glad that we have been able to bring our two departments to work together with the levels amity so far achieved. I can only hope that, if you do not return my affections, you may at least bear them without reproach.”

            Silence fell, neither man looking away. After a very long moment, Tallis cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, glancing down as he absently shuffled papers.

            “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice just touching on a growl. If possible, Craddock paled even further. He swallowed.

            “Last… _time,”_ he said evasively, “you expressed a wish that I had consulted you and confessed myself before seeking a magical solution to my problem.”

            “And?”

            Craddock shifted uncomfortably. “And when the problem came once more to a head,” he said, determinedly _not_ looking down, “I opted to learn from the past rather than repeat it.”

            Tallis said nothing. Eventually, Craddock sighed and dropped his gaze.

            “I can see that this visit was pointless,” he said, a curious strength behind the soft intonation. He picked up his hat and made to leave. “Until next time, Commander Tallis.”

            _“Pompey.”_

            He froze in his tracks, his shoulders tensing visibly.

            “For goodness’ sake, Pompey, come here,” Tallis grumbled, voice caught somewhere between frustration and good-naturedness.

            Craddock turned slowly and stepped back across the room on tentative feet. He made his way around the side of the desk as Tallis stood. When they were finally facing each other with nothing but twelve inches of air between them, Tallis sighed through his nose and took Craddock’s hat from his hand, returning it to the desk.

            “Let’s do this properly this time, shall we?” he said softly, almost all of the usual gruffness in his voice vanishing.

            “Do what properly?” Pompey asked.

            Tallis snorted. “Don’t be a twit, Pompey,” he said lightly, and all of a sudden, he was no longer Commander Tallis of the Special Services, but just _Tallis,_ practicing combat and complaining about essays and holding a tall, thin magician in his arms as they slept. Pompey stepped closer, bringing both hands up to cradle Tallis’ neck as Tallis took hold of his waist and jaw – and all of a sudden, they were kissing.

           It wasn’t slack with brandy or greedily, desperately angry this time. Instead, Pompey’s lips were soft and Tallis was slow as they figured out the placement of noses and fingers and hearts, eyes closed and breaths loud in their ears. When they broke apart, they did not pull away, keeping themselves close. Pompey nosed gently against Tallis’ cheek.

           “Westley,” he whispered, then stopped, opening his eyes. “May I call you Westley?” he asked, reprimanding himself so silently that Tallis heard it loud and clear, and smirked.

           “No you most certainly may _not,”_ he said. “It’s an awful name.”

           Pompey’s mouth twisted with amusement, not quite smiling, and the expression was so beloved and so dearly missed that Tallis immediately swooped up to kiss it away, lest he find his heart breaking again at the sight.


End file.
